Page 36 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
Running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, she relished the feel of his muscles bunching with his movements. She wondered if she made him feel as hot, as tormented, as desperate for more. She was a fool not to return the money, to have bargained with this devil, but he’d given her a flavor of what he could deliver. She thought she might be more of a fool not to welcome the opportunity to share his bed. She was already ruined. She had nothing else to lose.
Slipping her hands beneath his lapels, she ran them up and over, striving to remove his jacket. He reared back, quickly worked himself free of the offending garment, tossing it across to the other bench. With nimble fingers, she unknotted his cravat, unwound the neck cloth, and cast it aside. Without thought or permission, she buried her face against his neck, inhaled the rich aroma that was he. She kissed, nibbled, suckled the soft skin.
He moaned, low and deep. His fingers tightened on her.
“I have long wanted to do this,” she whispered, her voice raspy with her heightened awareness of him. “I’ve been rather envious of your neck cloth.”
His dark chuckle echoed between them. “Do not dare deny yourself any aspect of me.”
Once again he claimed her mouth, and the sensations swirled through her. She should be afraid by the storm of passion brewing between them, but she seemed capable only of standing in the midst of it and letting it have its way. It had been building between them from the moment she felt his gaze on her that first night, from the first word, the first assessing glance, the first touch. The accumulation of every encounter since had led to this journey within his conveyance, a journey over road, a journey into pleasure.
The coach jolted to a stop. Avendale was out the door in a flash. She made to follow him, and suddenly found herself in his arms, his long legs carrying him toward his grand manor. She’d thought it magnificent before, but the purpose of her visit had her paying little attention to details. Now his mouth on hers served as the distraction.
She was vaguely aware of them passing through the entryway door, the echo of his booted feet on marble before they were ascending stairs. He carried her with ease as though she weighed no more than a willow leaf. Clutching his shoulder with one hand, scraping the fingers of the other over his scalp, through his thick hair, she knew she had never felt so protected, so safe.
Odd when she knew where they were headed, where this encounter would end. She thought she should be trembling with trepidation; instead she was quivering with anticipation.
Marching into a bedchamber—no doubt his bedchamber—he kicked the door closed behind them. Dragging his mouth from hers, he tossed her onto the massive four-poster bed. She landed across it with a soft bounce. Grabbing her bodice, he ripped it asunder, buttons popping off, some clattering to the floor. She tried to do the same with his waistcoat, but she hadn’t the strength and had to resort to attempting to unbutton it even as her hands wandered wildly over his chest, his taut stomach.
With a dark bark of laughter, he tore off his waistcoat, flung it aside. His shirt went next and her hands were skimming over the marvelous warm expanse of his chest.
He spread the parted material of her bodice wide, buried his face between her breasts. “You are so beautiful,” he rasped as he stroked and kneaded with fingers, with tongue. He left a trail of tiny bites up along her throat until he was once again in possession of her mouth.
There was a wildness to their actions, a desperation. She could not get enough of touching him, thought she would never get enough of it.
“We’ll go slower next time,” he growled, as his heated mouth trailed along her throat.
Suddenly her skirt and petticoats were pooled at her waist, his fingers were slipping through the opening in her drawers.
His breath was hot against her ear. “God, you’re wet, so damned wet. So remarkably hot.”
Straightening a fraction, he hastily unfastened his breeches. She barely caught sight of what he’d set free, had less than a second to wonder if she should be afraid before he thrust inside her.
She fought back the cry of pain, but a portion of it escaped in a whimper.
“Goddamn you,” he ground out through clenched teeth as his head reared back, his body bucked, and he emitted a low groan that reverberated from deep within his chest. Then he went still, so profoundly still, only his harsh breathing echoing between them.
She looked up into eyes filled with molten fury.
“You said you were a widow,” he fairly snarled.
“I lied.”
Chapter 9
Without another word, he left her. Sprawled on the bed in a heap of sticky, blood-spotted skirts, the room echoing with the crash of the door slamming in his wake. She was surprised it remained hinged.
The burn of tears hurt worse than the burning between her thighs. She’d never felt so alone, so abandoned, so hopeless.
Struggling, she sat up and tried to secure her bodice with the few buttons remaining. Was he done with her? Was she supposed to stay now? Did her virginity alter the deal?
Surely not. She wouldn’t stand for his reneging on their agreement. The money was hers, even if he never wanted to see her again. Why had he been so mad about it, like she’d done something awful? She’d thought he’d be pleased to know that no other man had ever come before him. Wasn’t that what men wanted? What they valued? Virtue?
Noises echoed on the other side of a wall that contained a door. Was that another bedchamber? Was he in there, washing off her blood? Where was she to wash up?
Sliding off the bed, she grimaced at the slight discomfort. With her shoes still on, she tiptoed to the washbasin, not certain why she didn’t want him to know that she was moving about.
No water. God, she needed water. She felt so unclean. The tears threatened again, and she forced them back. She would not weep for the loss of what he had so callously taken, for what she had freely given.
